ng heather, a little cross-leaved heath, patches of furze, a clump
of storm-bent Scotch firs or so, and rock--mostly rock.

Pig Head had only been able to get what he thought was his own back upon
that day by firing at the eagles, because the laird and the stalkers, the
gillies, the keepers, and the People of the Hills, were away, all away,
at a sheep-dog trial, or a clan meeting, or something. After that he had
to work in silence, and he did.

There are always people who will buy a golden eagle "British caught," and
those who don't want live ones will take 'em dead, and have them stuffed.
They like to be able to set 'em up in the hall among other stuffed birds,
and boast that they shot 'em. Other people of it like decayed mind come
and look at them, and offer money for them at sales out of jealousy.
That's collecting.

Now, somewhere, somehow, sometime during his checkered career, Pig Head
had heard, or read, of a way of catching golden eagles. He proceeded.

Upon an unholy and cold shaly slope well up among the clouds, the mist,
and the ptarmigan, Pig Head had hollowed him out a hollow, roomy enough
for himself to crouch in. He was the sort of man that crouched--and
"grouched." Over the top he put a nice big slab; the walls were of piled
stones, and at one end was an aperture eight inches or so long by about
one foot. Being made of its surroundings, the hiding-place did not look
at all suspicious--from a bird's point of view.

Finally, upon the morning after the unsuccessful shooting, and before it
was light--this was necessary, for there is no knowing how far the eyes
of eagles can see--Pig Head ensconced himself in this hiding-place. It
was perishing cold, and Pig Head, who did not smoke, and never drank
whisky--only gin--was blue of nose and numb of hand. A good plaid would
have helped him, but he abhorred plaids.

* * * * * *

The dawn came up over the mountains, the mists sank down to the vales,
and the dawn wind, lean and searching, went whispering over the hills.

Then a speck grew out of the heights, out of the west and the dark, and
growing and growing momentarily, became a rustling, sinister, untidy,
heavy shape, which anon settled upon a rock, and croaked, "Glock! glock!"
twice, almost like a bark, in a deep and sepulchral voice. To it was
added another sable form, coming down from the lonely stony heights, and
the two sat together, remarking, as they looked--b